


Uno strano destino (A Strange Fate)

by lazarus_girl



Series: Saudade Series [14]
Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“How do you grieve for someone you never knew?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uno strano destino (A Strange Fate)

**Author's Note:**

> Future fic. Follows Gen 2 canon. Written for [15genres1prompt](http://15genres1prompt.livejournal.com) Genre: Crime. Prompt: Lost. Inspired by the Ludovico Einaudi piece [‘Uno strano destino’](http://open.spotify.com/track/4eBvZq2Xy7X5dKS1A2m0E5) from _Sotto falso nome/Strange Crime_. Thank you to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com/) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

**Worcester, England, 2012**

Long Lartin. It doesn’t sound like a prison, it sounds quaint and picturesque, like some grand old manor house they’d use for the setting of a lavish period drama. Lush verdant grounds, cloudless blue skies, classical architecture. You’d like to go there now, this beautiful xanadu you’ve conjured up in your mind out of nowhere, because it’s infinitely better where you actually are. This place is anything but picturesque and quaint.

Still, you came willingly. Though you had reservations, they were brief, because of who did the asking. Naomi. Your beautiful girl. You’d do anything for her. Anything.

Except, the only thing you want to do, you can’t. You can’t take away the pain she’s feeling. Ever. It’ll lessen, in time; people – your mum, your dad, Katie – keep telling you the edges of it will dull, that she’ll learn to cope; that you’ll learn together, just like you did with Sophia, with Freddie, and now this. They’re still there, lingering in the back of your mind. Ghosts. You thought it couldn’t get any worse after Freddie. You thought that sitting in the church on that gloomy late September afternoon, all in a row – all too young for all of that black, too young the ceremony of death – listening to Mr McLair as he struggled to read the eulogy he’d written was the worst thing that could ever happen. This is worse than that afternoon.

It was easier to grieve for Freddie; you had a grasp of it. You had memories, you had something to cling to, even if it was small, and you didn’t know him nearly as well as Effy, Cook, and JJ did. This is different. Different because it isn’t just a friend, it’s someone that’s been missing from Naomi’s life for all of her life. All she’s got is snatches of stories and a tattered fading photograph that she’s carried around for years. She has the idea of a person, instead of the concreteness that people take for granted.

How do you grieve for someone you never knew?

Suddenly, it hits you, square in the chest: your girlfriend is the daughter of a murder victim. She’s not just an ordinary girl anymore. Her name is recorded in the papers, in history. Forever. It’s not just a news story on the television that you empathise with for a week until it’s replaced with someone else’s tragedy. Forgetting is a luxury you no longer have.

***

You’re getting used to prisons. The noise. Harsh fluorescent lights. The weak, overly sweetened tea in polystyrene cups. The stop-go every time a door is locked or unlocked. Searches. Locking valuables away out of reach. It scared you, the first time, when you visited Cook, hand-in-hand with Naomi walking down a long sterile corridor much like this one. Now, it’s just routine, you barely blink. There’s something unsettling about that familiarity; it shouldn’t be ordinary, but it is. You don’t have it in you anymore to be shocked, much less take time to analyse it all. Your concept of time stopped months ago.

There are two guards in front this time, not just one. The both of you tack obediently behind the older of the two, Ray. He’s twice your size, but has a kindly face, that reminds you of your Grandpa Fitch. Every time he’s spoken to you both, he’s done so with the utmost care, particularly with Naomi. Perhaps he knows who she is from the television reports, or perhaps that’s just what he’s briefed to do. Either way, you appreciate it.

When Naomi squeezes your hand, you tear yourself away from watching the huge set of keys on his belt swinging back and forth in time with his lengthy strides.

She looks so different, older, you think, when you turn to look at her. She’s barely twenty-one. The cards are still up at home. She’s been through so much in such a short space of time, and she’s still lost, still hurting, still angry, so incredibly angry, and you’re beginning to wonder if you’re going to lose her too. If that fragile, sweet girl underneath it all – the one you always knew was hiding all along – will disappear completely. From this angle, it looks like she has. Her features are harder, the softness long gone. It’s just the lights, playing tricks. Yes. That’s it. You haven’t noticed before now, because you’re with her every day. She’s the first thing and the last thing you see, so it’s hard to pinpoint. Except, you know exactly when it happened, perhaps even to the minute. You were there. You watched it. You felt it.

It’s cut your lives clean in half.

***

**Tamil Nadu, India, 2011**

You were in Sadhana Forest.

Goa came later than you planned, but it was everything imagined and more. You rediscovered each other. You fell right back in love with her, if you ever fell out of it, which you aren’t entirely sure you did.

After a month or so there – everything was a blur of parties, dancing, meeting people, and lots of make-up sex – anything felt possible again; nothing off limits. You were craving something new, a different experience with her. Gina suggested you travel to Auroville, and get in touch with Ashvy, her oldest friend and Naomi’s godmother.

You were a little reticent at first, because even though you trusted her – implicitly once more – it felt like going into something Naomi wanted and needed instead of you. Though you didn’t like to admit it, sometimes you could be as big a princess as Katie. Sadhana was part of her life, her passion, and though you felt solid and strong together, past experience had taught you that didn’t always mean everything. You could already feel Naomi pulling you in a direction you weren’t sure you wanted to go. In the end, after a heart to heart, she reassured you, and you put it all aside, and let yourself be carried along, you had to. All that mattered were that you were together. Love is about compromise, your dad says, so you compromised, you took another risk for her, all too afraid that she might just decide to go on her own. Losing her once was hard, you couldn’t imagine living through it again.

Naomi was right, of course, and you felt utterly stupid, because Naomi would never pressure you or put you into a situation you weren’t comfortable in. She encouraged you to try new things, yes – her brand of bravery, you know that now – but you always felt safe and protected, because she was at your side. You embraced it all; the place, the people, the way of life. From the second you met Yorit, Aviram and everyone else, you knew you made the right choice. It was exactly what you needed. You both fit right in, making friends quickly, from kids backpacking on their gap year – like Sean, Reza, and Edie – to people who set off travelling years ago and never made it home because somewhere else became home to them – like Angel, Jude, and Will. Suddenly understood why Naomi was so eager to try it out. She thrived in front of you, in her element. You’ve never felt freer, happier or more loved. Naomi said the same. Going back through old facebook pictures, you barely recognised yourselves.

You didn’t know it, but this dream, this idyll, was about to come crashing down around your ears.

Naomi was taking her computer time, running off the battery, keeping up with emails and her writing down your experiences while you sat with Edie and Angel, preparing lunch. Sean sat with her, and even though they were both facing away from you, you knew something was wrong.

_“Bloody hell!”_

At the sound of Sean’s voice, your head snapped up, turning to the direction he was sitting. Visibly shocked, he turned Naomi’s laptop around so the others could see.

A news report was on the screen. Everyone began to gather in a semi-circle, straining to hear the tinny speakers. You dropped the knife you were chopping with and ran straight to Naomi. She was drained completely of colour.

_“What’s wrong, babe?”_

You knelt next to her, paying little attention to anyone else, even though there was whispering and hands on your shoulders, supporting, somehow sensing what was to come.

As the newsreader spoke, a picture appeared on the screen, a very familiar picture. A man, twenty or so, at a party perhaps, smiling shyly for the camera. Even though the picture was old, its colours bleached by time, you couldn’t tear yourself away – his eyes were the same as Naomi’s. The picture was the one Naomi carried with her every day. A picture of her father. As it hung on the screen, Naomi patted the pocket of her shirt, and pulled the picture out, comparing it. Your heart stopped, dropping somewhere into your stomach.

You’ll never forget the words the newsreader said, in that calm authoritative voice, or the complete and utter chaos that ultimately followed. Everyone held their breath, obviously steeling themselves for Naomi’s reaction. There wasn’t one. You knew there wouldn’t be. Naomi’s first instinct is to shut down. To save herself pain. It doesn’t always work. Crying is Naomi’s last resort, when she’s truly at the end of her rope. It’s more than an expression of feeling. It’s a final admission that things aren’t right. Her emotions come out when they can’t stay in any longer.

_“Avon and Somerset police have today confirmed that the remains unearthed by ramblers near Woodlands Farm in Coalpit Heath are that of missing Oxford University student, Peter Robinson. The 20-year-old from Cotham was last seen in late August of 1992.”_

She stared blankly at the screen, stock still even when the next broadcast had moved on. You held her tight, from behind, saying nothing, while the snatches of words; expressions of shock and disbelief from the others washed over you both.

The connection dropped out soon after that. Without a word, she shut down the laptop, closed it, and walked away, headed for the denser forest yet to be developed. You watched, and waited, following a respect distance behind, ignoring the worried looks on the other’s faces, because they didn’t know what to do. You knew. Some silent ticking clock somewhere in the back of your mind told you – how long you’d have before she would break.

It took twenty-one steps.

In the clearing, shrouded in shadows from the trees overhead, Naomi sank to her knees, letting out a wounded, plaintive cry. You ran to her again, ready. You don’t know how long you stayed there; cradling her, no matter how much she fought against you – pushing at you, square in the chest with surprising force – until she eventually gave in, and just let you take over.

_“I’m here, darlin’ I’m here.”_

You lost count of how many times you said that to her in those first hours, uttered softly, like a mantra while you listened as the energy drained out of her. Great wracking sobs turned into whimpers, and eventually, silence.

It’s the only promise you had a hope of keeping, and the only truth Naomi could bear.

The enormity of it didn’t hit you until a little later, when you stumbled out of your sleeping quarters, leaving Naomi behind because she’d finally managed to fall asleep. The wave of nausea blindsided you. Shocked and overwhelmed, it was then the tears overtook you. Obviously woken by the noise, Reza came to you, comforting you as best he could, fetching water and wiping your face. Kind as he was, he wasn’t Naomi, and your Naomi would never be quite the same. Sadness you could soothe with hugs and kind words. Mistakes you could apologise for, but what do you do with death? That great heavy, final, permanent thing.

You had no idea. You still don’t.

Ashvy leant you the money to fly home, not listening to your protests. You didn’t want to leave. They’d all become your family now. Torn away from them at the wrong moment by the worst possible thing. The thing you least expected. You left with a heavy heart. Your pockets were full of telephone numbers and email addresses, promises to write, to visit, to return to them all, lingering in your ears.

When the phone reception kicked back in, your voicemail was full, just like Naomi’s. Every message was a variation on the same theme: you needed to come home. Now. In the end, the kind pleas stopped, replaced by frantic begging on a seemingly endless loop. First it was your mum and Gina; then your dad, Kieran, and finally Katie, each message more distressed than the last.

The flight was twice as long in silence. All you could do was hold her hand, watching her anxiety grow as you got closer to home. It felt woefully inadequate. You got used to that feeling. Quickly.

***

**Bristol and Elsewhere, 2011**

Guiding a still shell-shocked Naomi through the terminal into the waiting arms of your families, it felt wrong. They kissed you and hugged you tighter, full of relief. Even so, it was subdued, joyless and empty. So very far removed from the homecoming you’d imagined; returning tanned, healthy and happy, giddy with excitement and full of conversation, leaden with souvenirs. You _were_ tanned, hair braided in multiple colours thanks to Edie and Angie; adorned with bracelets and necklaces swapped with the myriad of people you’d met throughout your trip, but you weren’t happy. You weren’t anything but numbness masquerading as anger and the deepest, darkest, sharpest grief that’s ever touched you.

You couldn’t even begin to imagine how Naomi was feeling. If she could feel at all. You held back from hugging your own dad too hard, suddenly very aware that you still had something and someone – cherished someone – that Naomi didn’t. She’s always been fond of him and sought his approval, but underneath, unsaid, there’s a kind of jealousy that you knew could shift into resentment all too quickly.

Peter had been an idea for you, something you couldn’t fulfil. Naomi clung fiercely to the dream of reconnecting with him somehow; of having that missing piece in her life and her heart click into place. You dreamed with her, about meeting the idealistic opinionated man you’d learned so much about through Gina and her friends, because he sounded so very much like the girl you adored. Even if they were just stories, it didn’t matter. It was tainted now. The dream shattered right in front of you, and no amount of wishing would put the pieces back together. No matter how hard you tried.

***

Seeing patrol cars and policemen in hi-vis jackets stationed outside Naomi’s house became normal. You took a different route once the local press became involved, and news crews blocked half the street. As the truth of it came out, more gruesome by the day, they grew in number, and it became a national story too. Every time they’d stop you and ask questions, you’d stay silent, not willing to feed their macabre curiosity.

_Following further investigation, police now believe that the murder of Peter Robinson may be connected to that of Bedminster student, Freddie McLair. The eighteen-year-old was found bludgeoned to death in the home of eminent psychologist, Dr John Foster, who later confessed to the killing._

The hardest truth was to come.

For a while, you didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to make sense of it all. Whether you should give Naomi space, or stay with her as long as possible. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt good enough. Days were lost in a blur as you tried to piece at all together. The atmosphere at Naomi’s was tense. The discovery had brought feelings Gina had to back to the surface. You and Kieran where stuck on the outside, ill-equipped to deal with any of it. Naomi was angry, so very angry, because what she’d always been told, that she’d effectively been abandoned, wasn’t quite true. Gina tried to reason with her, to explain why she hadn’t felt able to tell her the truth, but all it did was make Naomi worse.

You lost count of the times you sat on the stairs with Kieran, listening to them screaming at each other, short temper’s even shorter than normal.

_“You lied to me, mum. For years!”_

_“How could I tell you? I didn’t know the truth. I had no idea where he was! I couldn’t bring myself to think that he might be dead, so it got easier to say he just left us. You were just a child! I was trying to protect you!”_

_“Oh please, you were protecting yourself, so I had to stay with you and you wouldn’t be on your own!”_

_“It’s not that simple, Naomi!”_

_“Yes it is! You let me think he’d come back. You, and all of your fucking mates. You’re all liars! I fucking hate you! I can’t look at you. Don’t fucking touch me!”_

She stormed out after that. It wasn’t the first time, but for the first time, you were wise enough not to follow, staying still when Kieran’s arm blocked your path instead of forcing your way past him like before. You felt wretched, like you were abandoning her somehow, but you knew, somewhere deep down, that Kieran was right. His responses were always measured and careful.

_“Leave her be.”_

_“Give her time.”_

_“Let her go.”_

What they really said was ‘I care too.’

She needed space to breathe, because she wallows to the point that she suffocates in her own despair. You’ve seen it before. You caused it before. You knew how long the drop would take, how far she could fall before she’d be too far out of reach.

***

Peter had always been there, on the periphery, but now he couldn’t be avoided. Just like Freddie, his face was on the news every day, staring out at you all from the television screen. Immortalised. Eventually, you started to see him in your sleep.

Still Naomi clung to you, begging you to stay. You lost count of the times you held her as she cried herself to sleep, never daring to show that side of herself to anyone but you. To everyone else, she was strong, stoic in the face of it. To you, she was frightened and angry, hurting beyond measure.

Your room at home in your parents new but smaller house wasn’t really yours at all, still a blank canvas. You couldn’t get used to not having to share with Katie. More often than not, on the rare nights you did go home, you ended up sleeping in the same bed, staying awake until four and five in the morning, trying to make sense of it all. You cried then, because you daren’t cry in front of Naomi. She was so fragile.

It took a solid week of your mum pleading with you before you finally felt that it was OK to come back and stay, keeping in contact by phone. It wasn’t healthy to carry on living in each other’s pockets. You needed time and space. It was a fine plan on the phone, stood in the garden while the detectives talked to Gina, Naomi and Kieran. When trying to explain it, carefully and gently to Naomi, sitting on the edge of her bed, it was anything but fine. All it took to change your mind was three words, tumbling desperately from her, voice breaking as she spoke.

_“Don’t leave me.”_

You couldn’t do it. Her heart was already broken. You couldn’t deliver the final hammer blow. It wouldn’t just be leaving her for now; it would be leaving her for always. It would be the end of you, and you both knew it.

Your parents, both of them, to your surprise, accepted her. No one challenged it when a few days turned into a few weeks instead. James was surprisingly considerate, and Katie didn’t once complain. It just flagged up how wrong the whole situation was. Finding your mum in the kitchen one morning at some odd early hour, holding Naomi as she cried was the strangest thing to come across. Not because you didn’t think your mum would care, far from it in fact, but the depth of care surprised you. The only good thing to come out of this is that they’re closer now, genuinely, for the first time.

It made you feel strangely proud.

***

On a cold, blustery day, you all set off for Portsmouth, where Peter grew up before the family moved to Bristol in the late 1980s, invited to a memorial service and the scattering of Peter’s ashes. The weather was horrendous, and as a result, the journey was torturously slow. You sat in silence, listening to the radio shift from music to static and back for hours while your dad drove, following Kieran’s car, and numerous others in a sort of cortège.

With time and space to think, you found yourself mulling over odd things, silly things, really, but there was one thing you couldn’t shake, and it kept coming back to you the closer it got to the service. You wondered if the Robinsons regretted that decision. From the look on Naomi’s face whenever you happened to catch her gaze, you knew she felt that way too.

Through it all, you stayed close to Naomi, holding hands, fingers intertwined. Your families, or what constituted them stood around you, along with Peter and Gina’s friends, a group of forty-something misfits, all bound by their grief. Your mum said it would feel better, that Naomi might start to feel a little better once the memorial was finished. Closure. Things would be less raw.

She was right.

Feet away, from you, reading from a neatly folded piece of paper, was the man you came to know as Naomi’s grandfather, Ted. A kind, timid man, his whole face lit up the second he saw Gina and Naomi. He’d seen pictures and videos over the years, because Gina had kept in touch, unaware until now how much importance it would come to carry. The news coverage meant you knew more about Ted and his late wife, Sylvia, than he knew of you. Died of a broken heart, the news reports said. A powerful cliché they like to trot out, but it was true, you knew it when you listened to Ted speak, overcome with emotion as he scattered his son’s ashes.

Naomi didn’t cry, but Gina did, really, truly, for the first time. When you felt Naomi let go of your hand, you turned to see if she was OK, only to find that she was consoling Gina along with Kieran. It was an apology, and the start of them repairing their relationship. As you watched the last of Peter’s ashes drift away, you let out a quiet sob, feeling your own mum’s arm drape around your shoulders.

That night, Naomi slept at home for the first time in weeks.

***

The finality of it all didn’t register until much later, when you stood with Naomi in Peter’s bedroom back in Clifton. You’d passed the house with Naomi hundreds of times, not even knowing who lived there. Until a year or so ago, it was just a nice house with a pretty garden. Stepping inside, the loss you were all dealing with became real in a way you hadn’t imagined. He became real to you in a way you hadn’t imagined. Ted insisted you visit, that Naomi could take anything she liked to keep as a memento, but you hadn’t expected it to mean you’d both be allowed to go into his room. Instead, you thought that Ted might have collected some photographs or something similar into a box, just like Karen did for Effy when Freddie died.

You both surveyed the room in silence; afraid to touch anything until Ted reminded you it was fine before leaving you alone again. Even so, it felt strange, like you were intruding. The room hadn’t been touched since Peter was last there, preserved and frozen, like a tiny personal museum. Every so often, Naomi would turn to you, attention piqued by something. It was bigger things it first, like records, books and posters, a record, a book, a poster on the wall. It was strange to think you’d have, that he and Naomi would have so much in common: Flock of Seagulls, Joy Division, The Stone Roses, Nietzsche, Kerouac, and Baudelaire. It was all piled high in crazy mess of things that no one had dared to try and organise. Even in making the tiniest disturbances to show each other things, you both put them back exactly as you found them out of politeness (and maybe superstition). You could almost hear things clicking into place for Naomi the longer you stayed there with her, poring over photographs, filling in the gaps in her knowledge that she’d carried for so long.

Sat together on his bed, barely any space between you, Naomi held the original photograph from the party in her hands, unpinned from its spot on the noticeboard above Peter’s desk. Unlike the one Naomi carried all this time, there are other people in the picture. This one had Gina in too, maybe the same age as you, perhaps a little younger, with bleached blonde hair and deep blue mascara. The resemblance between Naomi and her father is immediately obvious, from his eyes to the shy, reticent smile; but you see Gina in Naomi too.

_“Do you think he would’ve liked me? That he’d be proud of me?”_

All you could do was nod, eyes filling with tears as you took in the pained expression on her face, wide-eyed and childlike, but altogether different from the pictures you’ve seen of her from back then. She was so unsteady and so unsure, and you had no idea why. How could he not love her? How would he not be proud of her? You pulled her close, breathing soft ‘yes’ in answer, because you couldn’t find the words to say anything beyond that.

Her entire happiness seemed to hinge on your answer. It made another kind of hurt bloom in your chest and struck right to the heart of you. All she’s ever wanted is to be wanted. To love, and be loved. You know what it’s like to feel lost, to feel like you don’t have that approval, and you’ve struggled with that for years, but at least where you and your mum are concerned, you had the time and opportunity to make peace. Naomi had neither.

Naomi looks at the picture again, and your attention’s caught by something. One of the other faces seems familiar, but you can’t quite place it. Then, it suddenly dawns on you; the taller man on the opposite side of Gina, with long, dark wavy hair is none other than John Foster.

You don’t want to say it out loud, but the question tumbles out before you realise.

_“Is that …?"_

Naomi frowns, looking at the picture again. Shaking her head in disbelief. Then, dread settles, and she just looks at you sadly. They knew each other. They were friends. You pull Naomi close again and kiss her cheek, the most intimate you’ve been in weeks. It seems to give her strength. She flips the picture over, tracing a finger over the faded handwritten caption, letting out a shaky breath when she realises it’s not Gina’s handwriting, but Peter’s. He and Naomi have the same thin, angular italicised writing.

_John’s 21st, May 1992. The future is now!_

It was easier, somehow, when the person who killed Peter was just another person, someone callous, cold, and evil. When that evil got a face, a face you knew – albeit by a few steps removed – it got less easy, because now there were more connections and coincidences and it meant that Freddie’s death wasn’t just a random act, it was part of something bigger and more terrifying. Foster’s close now, closer than you ever imagined, practically breathing down your necks, and it’s the worst thing of all.

All you can think when you look at the picture again is that they all look happy, so innocent and unaware, even John Foster. There’s no inkling of what you know he’s capable of. That’s the cruellest trick, perhaps, with tragedies like this. The world makes stories, and those stories make you believe that monsters are deformed and grotesque; lurking in the dark, hiding in wait under beds. Monsters aren’t like that at all. They can be your next-door neighbour, your doctor, or your best friend. Monsters can hide in plain sight. Monsters can look just like you.

On that afternoon, the difference between those notorious monsters and everyone you knew and loved felt paper thin.

***

When you visited Naomi’s the next day, she was the one everyone was frantic over. She’d vanished into thin air.

_“She’s upped and left, Emily. I don’t know where she’s gone!”_

The line crackled. Gina sounded frantic, her voice hitting the same pitch as when she called you in Sadhana Forest. You imagined her pacing the room, the very image of the day when the policemen came for the first time, your heart sank, breath stalling in your lungs as your mind started to race.

Naomi had promised you more than once that she wouldn’t hurt herself or do anything stupid, but after visiting Ted, she seemed better, she looked better even, but now, you couldn’t help thinking that it was the look of someone had made peace with the world instead of with themselves. Cook said once that Sophia looked that way the night she died, and that serenity had nothing to do with the drugs.

While Gina carried on talking, and you tried your best to calm her down, you paced the room instead, thinking through all the places Naomi might go, and why. Then, Katie tapped you on the shoulder, putting the morning paper under your nose. As you took in the words on the page, suddenly things made a lot more sense.

Just when you didn’t think it could get any worse, it did.

_Dr John Foster was today charged with the murder of Peter Robinson. Having concealed the crime for over eighteen years, It is believed that Robinson’s death was the first in a spate of killings that spanned throughout the 1990s and 2000s, culminating with that of teenager Freddie McLair in 2010 – a classmate of the daughter Peter Robinson never saw grow up._

_Foster admitted to repeatedly stabbing his childhood friend after an argument between the pair over Peter’s then girlfriend, Gina Campbell, spun out of control. Leaving Robinson to die, Foster fled, only to return the next day to bury the body and conceal his crime. In the weeks following Peter’s disappearance, Foster was heavily involved with the police investigation, and was captured on camera during the searches for Peter once he was reported missing by his parents, Ted and Sylvia, never once revealing the true extent of his involvement until the discovery of remains at Coalpit Heath._

You read it twice, just to make sure it was right, but it the shock of it didn’t lessen. If anything, seeing it in print made it worse. With the television, you can turn it off, but there’s something irrefutable about the printed word. From the left side of the article, Peter’s now painfully familiar face smiles back out at you. It’s a picture you saw at Ted’s, Peter has a Saint Christopher around his neck, and it’s all you can focus on for a moment. It’s a sign of some kind, a message.

Suddenly, you realised you knew exactly where she’d gone.

_“I know where she is, Gina. She’s safe, I promise you. I’ll bring her back.”_

Katie looked at you like you’d gone mad because you were grinning like an idiot at the least appropriate moment. You didn’t have time to explain to either of them, and you didn’t dare leave Naomi alone for any longer than she should be. Maybe it was a test; maybe it was a cry for help. Maybe it was both, you’re still not sure.

You hung up the phone as fast as you could without being rude, ran to the garage and picked up James’ battered old bike from the back corner, headed straight for Abbots Pool – your lake, the place where you and Naomi became something, where you became Emily and Naomi really. The memory of it is the cement that held you together through everything. The years hadn’t made you any better at peddling, so it took much longer than it needed to really, but you felt compelled to do it. It didn’t matter about the rain or that your lungs were screaming for air, you had to get there. You could almost see the carefree, barely seventeen-year-old version of her cycling along next to you, glancing back to see if you were OK.

By the time you got there, the rain had let up, but it was still gloomy and overcast, threatening another downpour. She was sitting in the spot you knew she would be, on the same tartan blanket, hood up, hugging herself. A curl of smoke from her cigarette rose into the air.

_“I thought you might be here.”_

When she turned to face you, startled, her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and you aren’t sure what to do. You walked forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.

_“You scared me half to fucking death, you know.”_

_“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”_

Then, Naomi stubbed out her cigarette, and scrambled to her feet, almost knocking you over as she put her arms around you and squeezed tight, as if she hadn’t seen you for years. You don’t know why, but when her head lifts from your shoulder, angled just so, you brush your lips against hers. Given the way she’s been feeling, you half expect her to pull away, but she doesn’t. Something has changed, shifted, released. Maybe it’s the memory, maybe it’s the relief, but you kiss and you kiss, your hands finding the back of her neck, then her hair, and then the buttons on her coat, the hem of her t-shirt, and the zip of her jeans. Just like it did all those years ago, the blanket protects you both from the damp ground when you sink down on to it.

When you wake up later, wrapped in it, you aren’t alone. Naomi is right next to you, gazing at you intently, as if she’d never seen you before. She seemed lighter, calmer, and though you were afraid to even think it, happier.

_“I’m sorry I disappeared. I just wanted to be somewhere where I was truly happy. It’s always been here, Ems, and it’s always because of you. I don’t tell you that enough. I love you. I really do. More than I ever thought I could.”_

Instead of an answer, you stroked her cheek, reaching for her, and kissing her tenderly. When you pull away, fully intending to kiss her again, something catches your eye, and you see Peter’s St. Christopher hanging around her neck, glinting in the fading light of the day. Without another word, you kissed her again, soft kisses, careful kisses, letting her be the one to pull you close. It was proof that she was coming back to you. She still had a long way to go, and she knew it too, but the first step is always the hardest.

You’d be there for every single one.

***

**Worcester, England, 2012.**

“Are you OK?”

It’s a ridiculous question, because she can’t possibly be, but you ask it anyway.

“I will be,” she nods, firmly, trying hard to look strong. She looks far from it. “Thank you for being here. For everything,” she’s fighting not to cry, and you squeeze her hand again. You can’t do anything more at the moment. There’s not much more you can do anyway, and it makes you feel utterly useless. You’ve tried to be strong in all this, and support her as best you can.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else, babe,” you reply, softly. “I’d never leave you,” Your voice wavers betraying you, and the younger guard turns to you both, looking up from the Visiting Order he’s holding, concerned.

“If this is too much for you, you can always turn back.”

“Eddie’s right girls,” Ray interjects, hand one hand hovering over the next door ready to unlock it. “You’re not obliged to visit, even though he sent the order.”

You wish he’d never sent it. It came as a bolt out of the blue right when Naomi was starting to get back on track. For weeks, it sat unopened on the mantelpiece in the living room; a draining presence, like the telltale heart, because the stamp on the envelope gave away the contents. Once opened, it didn’t lose any of its power, and you hated the idea that you were both being toyed with.

All it’s done is stir back up all the feelings you’ve all fought so hard to deal with, that Naomi’s fought so hard to deal with. You didn’t want her to come, you can’t stand the idea of them being in the same country, let alone the same room, and it’s thrown all your plans to travel again – New York this time – into disarray. It’s still raw, too raw for her to be here really, but she needs to know the truth, she’s told you that, repeatedly, every time you’ve discussed it. The whys and the wherefores of it all will plague her, eat her up from the inside out if she’s not careful.

It was obvious from all the coverage that he enjoyed attention, and you weren’t about to give him an opportunity to get more or fuck with Naomi’s head into the bargain, but ultimately, it was her choice. You promised to support her, so here you are.

“No,” she replies quickly, resolute. “I have to know the truth. I have to know why.”

The two guards exchange a look. They know she won’t get that truth. Everyone knows. Even Naomi.

“This way,” Eddie motions to the left.

There’s another long corridor. At the end is a set of double doors that bear the name ‘Visitors Room,’ in bold lettering. Naomi walks slower now; you can tell she’s getting more nervous. You’re getting more nervous, and it suddenly occurs to you what’s actually going to happen. In all the planning, in all the back and forth over whether the visit should happen at all, you’d forgotten that the culmination of it was coming face-to-face with a man who’s altered your life beyond recognition. He killed Freddie, maimed Cook, left Effy needing therapy for God knows how many years, and now, to cap it all, he’s robbed Naomi of the father she’s always longed for.

It should be Peter you’re meeting today, being introduced properly, as her girlfriend, not meeting the person who’s responsible for the fact you can’t. It makes you sick to your stomach. The fact he always knew, even when Naomi visited Effy while he was treating her, makes you feel sicker still.

“Eddie and I will be with you all the time,” Ray begins, carefully, as you get closer to the doors. Another guard is already there outside.

“OK,” Naomi croaks, on the verge of tears.

At the sound, something in you breaks. It’s worse than those first moments in Sadhana Forest. It’s worse than the memorial service, watching Peter’s ashes drift on the sea. It’s worse than standing in Naomi’s grandparents’ house, looking through all of Peter’s things. It’s worse than all the nights you’ve held Naomi in your arms as she cried herself to sleep since that day in Sadhana Forest. Those things you couldn’t control, you just had to steer her through them as best you could. This you _can_ control. You can stop it.

You pull on Naomi’s hand, and Ray throws you a look. He senses something.

“Don’t do this, Naoms. Don’t go in there. He’s hurt you enough,” you plead. “He’s hurt us all enough,” you amend, after moment.

The image of his face – smug, remorseless, and aloof – pops into your mind from seeing it on the news. It sparks an anger in you that you thought you’d managed to tame. Your mum had told you not to be angry today, not to give him the satisfaction. She’s right, you know she is, but right now, all you want to do is get revenge, and to make him understand how much pain he’s caused people that you love.

You grip her hand tight, knowing she won’t let go. That’s been the constant in all this. Through the horror of it all, you’ve held her hand, for every tiny step. This is just another – six all told, tiny in the scheme of things – but you can’t make yourself move any further.

“Please Ems,” is all she says, and you let out a sigh, because you can never refuse her, even now. You can’t leave her at the very moment she needs you the most.

“If it gets too much, you just say, and we’ll leave. I don’t care what that bastard –” you pause, mindful of where you are, “what _he_ thinks. OK? He’s nothing. He’s less than nothing. I care about you.”

Naomi just nods, sadly, resigned. “I have to do this by myself.”

“Naomi! No!”

For the first time, she lets go of your hand, walking through the doors alone. Your heart’s racing and you’re left grasping at air, frozen with dread.

Then, Ray’s hand is on your shoulder. “Don’t do anything silly, love,” he says in a low whisper, “just give her a moment.”

Steps away, and all too far away from you at once, you watch helplessly as it all unfolds. Foster is brought into the room by two other guards. He’s handcuffed, wearing a bright blue tabard over his prison uniform. At the sight, you shiver, going cold. He looks you right in the eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking up into barely there, satisfied smile.

Naomi’s entire body stiffens, and Eddie rushes to her side. Her fists curl at her side, and her breath hitches. You look up at the ceiling, willing yourself not to lose it as you move closer to her again, uncurling her fingers, lacing them with your own.

“Hello girls. I hoped you’d visit.”

***

 **Footnote:** When creating this story, I based the entire thing around who I thought could play a younger version of Naomi’s father, if we’d ever seen him, because his image is so integral to the story. I found my Peter in Richard Madden, and based the picture referenced throughout the story on [this](https://24.media.tumblr.com/a8468dbb6d5eb5a755d4cf788e5ee946/tumblr_n3opecfg5q1txkikoo2_400.jpg) candid photo of him.


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